


The Exeter, RI Chapter...

by AreaChickie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, This was supposed to be a chapter, then it had a mind of its own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreaChickie/pseuds/AreaChickie
Summary: Wherein Gabriel has a conscience, seeks Sammy, and is jealous of his baby bro's sex life.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 3





	The Exeter, RI Chapter...

Exeter, Rhode Island. 1892.  
One spectacular year earlier… Gabriel was hiding out, as was his custom, among the plainest, most far-flung folk he could find.  
That would place him posing as a humble physician named Howard Metcalf, caught up in the midst of the most modern (as it were) vampire hunt in civilized human history. At this time, Gabriel was yet to be the “Velvet Scourge of Bangkok” during the Paknam Incident of 1893. Now, he was Howard “Doc” Metcalf, M.D., a country physician from Wickford, Rhode Island suddenly thrust into the role of consultant-cum-supernatural-pathologist to the family of the late Mercy “Lena” Brown.  
Southern Rhode Island is a quaint and utterly singular place; for a state so small, to think it could be divided further into even more remote, esoteric cultural pockets seemed improbable. Yet, Little Rhody managed. While the north-eastern parts of the state hummed with industry and the gilded mansions of Newport thrummed with the parties of the wealthy elite, Exeter stayed, well… they farmed a lot. There were… churches. Wide, wide open spaces. A grange… maybe two. Moreover, they certainly possessed no immunity to fables, superstitions, and belief in all manner of other things that go bump in the night.  
Gabriel had come to this quiet corner of New England as word on Angel Radio was that Rhode Island was, “One of the best places Dad created.” “Sooooo beautiful.” “Watch out for the Arnolds.” “Freedom of worship.... all worship.” “Go visit; if you were to go and get caught out as an angel, everything will work out.” “Watch out for the Arnolds.”  
“All Arnolds are bad, Gabriel.”  
Okay, whatever.  
Incidentally, a young boy named Howard Phillips Lovecraft had just been born there in 1890, in the city of Providence. A century later it would earn the moniker “The Renaissance City.” And it was! Fires burned on the river, and the art school kids were chummy with the Ivy-League kids. Special underground shops sold Sanrio stuff. Yes, 1990’s Providence was that cool.  
Back on the east side, though only two years old, the Lovecraft child was already speaking some language called “R'lyehian,” a guttural derivative of Enochian that was lost on Gabriel.  
Poor Archangel. Should’ve done his homework, as his Daddy wasn’t the only Ginourmous Cosmic Entity in town.  
But that all would come to light about 26 years’ time. Or perhaps less.  
All the old tales: disgusted Gabriel. Romanian bloodsuckers, Carpathian cannibals and the like… that was stuff of the 1600’s, yes? Vlad the Impaler, Elisabeth Bathory… bathing in the blood of virgins (allegedly.)  
Yet… Here he was, attempting (albeit lamely) to masquerade as a doctor advising a family as to the best way to deal with… with… what was this? A family curse?  
A scant few years before, in 1889, a young girl named Nelli Vaughn, in the nearby town of West Greenwich had died of pneumonia, and though her creepy epitaph “I am waiting and watching for you” was a common doggerel for the tombstones of dead children. They were watching and waiting for their loved ones to join them, as they’d left this world too early. However, her epitaph was misconstrued os a menacing warning. “I’m coming for you!” it seemed to taunt.  
Now Edwin, the brother of Mercy Lena Brown, was ailing and begging that his family’s corpses be exhumed and examined… and why?  
Later that day, Gabriel found himself huddled on the chilly banks of Worden Pond among the reeds. On his way back to Wickford, from Exeter, he’d taken a detour to grab a loaf of day-old bread from a local baker, generously paying the man’s wife double for the crusty, sad wad of sourdough. As he carved away bits of it to feed the mallards and geese, his heart and grace grew steadily chillier.  
They wanted me to dig up that poor young girl.  
They wanted me to declare some grave supernatural forces are at play so the brother can heal himself… Ugh. Heal himself by.. Doctor, heal thyself!  
I’d ask my Dad, but then he’d know I ran away.  
Meanwhile…  
↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔  
Up north, in Cumberland, Gabriel’s brother Castiel found himself a happy surprise in Desmond “Dean” Winchester Arnold. A defrocked minister and hermit, Dean spent his time tending his apple orchard just outside Arnold’s Mill and hiding his own fantastical secret.  
He is a 174-year-old revenant.  
Bent on avenging his younger brother’s kidnapping and murder.  
Loyalty, so unbridled. Unconditional love in a form so pure. Love for a younger brother, a protective love so utterly absolute.  
Castiel simply couldn’t resist.  
During his time in Heaven, he’d learned that this one was special… this one would be born and re-born and born yet again. Why? Only Dad knew for sure, but… Castiel knew that this soul was special.  
And he wouldn’t let it out of his sight for very long.  
Castiel’s boots crunched through the early morning frost; the apple trees in March were dry, barren shadows of their typical Autumnal glory. No ripe fruit hung low from lush, green boughs for easy picking, save for one singular item.  
The sweet, delicious soul of a man who claimed to Desmond “Dean” Winchester Arnold.  
Castiel was startled from his reverie as the rusted prongs of a pitchfork were proffered way too generously to his face.  
“You don’t belong here,” growled the too-young-to-be-that-grizzled farmer. Tattered gloves flapped loosely from the shaky, pitchfork-wielding hands. A shotgun was slug over the man’s back, giving Castiel pause. Who guards an orchard with a shotgun? Oh yeah… revenant.  
“And I do not believe that you truly belong to this place or time either, Dean.” Castiel found his hands fiddling in the pockets of his long overcoat. Sapphire blue eyes stared down the shivering tines of the pitchfork.  
The wizened-before-his-time man growled once more, only this time, he seemed to hold back, his abject anger bowing to just a tiny bit of curiosity. “Who’re you?”  
“I’m a friend. And… actually, I’m afraid I may be much more,” said Castiel, taking his right hand and gently pushing the pitchfork away from his face. “I know you… Dean. And I have missed your company.”  
The man calling himself “Dean” wavered for only a beat before regaining his composure and bravado. “You don’t know me, stranger, and I don’t know you. You’re no friend–”  
“I am,” came Castiel’s calm reply.  
“Prove it!”  
At once, Castiel was upon the crazed and shaking farmer, the pitchfork willed away by a burst of grace, landing with a gentle “doomph!” as it scraped across the chilled earth. His mouth sought Dean’s, hungry and wanton, teeth colliding and tongue driving hungrily.  
Finally, the swamp-Yankee farmer drew away to catch his breath. Green eyes flickered from dull to lifeless in a heartbeat. “Somehow… I always knew you’d come for me. Tell me your name, Angel! Please?” Dean captured the other man’s mouth in yet another aggressively sloppy kiss. He broke away clumsily, gasping, “I done seen you… in my dreams. You were to come and protect me ‘n my kin.”  
This time, it was Castiel’s turn to pull away. “I am Castiel. An angel of the Lord.”  
Dean simply stared, dumbfounded. “No… can’t be.”  
Cas went on, “I am here on Earth to shepherd my elder brother Gabriel as he escapes from–”  
“Naw! Ye can’t be him!  
Before Castiel could finish, Dean had already seized him by the overcoat and pulled him down upon himself. As the farmer crashed back-first onto the hard, frozen earth, Castiel fell upon him. In a heartbeat, Dean’s hands groped madly, desperate to find the angel’s cock. His right hand found purchase, and he tore open Castiel’s linen trousers, seizing upon his fleshy prize, jerking the angel’s weeping cock until it purpled and went board-stiff in the crisp March air.  
“I know it now, Angel! I know who you are and what you are and… Want you to fuck me, Angel– Castiel – whatever you call yerself!” Then, a miniscule, choked whisper. “I need you.”  
Dean was panting now, practically hysterical, his breath puffing tiny clouds of condensation as he quaked and begged. “C’mon, Angel! Fuck me! Use me! Castiel, take me! Stop hauntin’ my sleep and fuck me! Take me! I’m yours!”  
At that, the farmer shucked his muddied trousers and the sad, grey underpants beneath. His cock, frighteningly turgid and dark and sculpted, sprang forth, the tip glistening with pre-come in the early morning sun. Dragging his tattered coat out from under them and mashing it to the orchard floor, he flung himself face-down, spread-eagle and offered his ass up with the desperation of the drowning and the starving.  
Those simply willing to die.  
Over and over again.  
Castiel was still several moments behind the desperate defrocked minister-turned-orchardist. Blinking rapidly, he descended upon Dean like a hungry animal, biting the crook of his neck while prying his ass cheeks as far apart as he could without tearing the man asunder. Loosening and lubing his quarry with nothing but his Grace and his wanton determination, he plunged forward, spearing Dean in one smooth, fluid movement.  
“Gah! Yes! Cas-ti-YELLLLLLL!”  
↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔  
A flock of misplaced wrens fled a barn, as if hearing an unholy yet silent disruption to the morning.  
However, Gabriel still had his aquiline nose buried in tome after tome after tome of medical lore. Surely there was an answer— an answer that didn’t involve disinterring a young girl. A girl buried in the dead of winter. An incredibly young and innocent girl.  
A curse? Tuberculosis, while curse-like in its manifestation, was hardly a matter of the supernatural. Of course, Gabriel knew this, but he wasn’t about to try to convince a sickly nineteenth-century man, fresh from a long convalescence in the mountains of Colorado, to abandon the ridiculous notion that digging his sister up, burning her internal organs and then consuming them would somehow… fix things?  
Shaky his dusky-blonde locks, he slammed the book shut. “Okay, Lucifer, I get it. This is why you hate the Human race. I get it and I admit it… They’re totally impaired in the critical thinky-thinky category. Little help here?”  
Nothing.  
“C’mon, ya great bag of dicks, this is totally your thing. The whole ‘spooky undead shit’ has been totally your bag— and might I add, your only bag— since Chuckles tossed you into the cage down below. Now astral project yourself here and now or I ain’t putting a cent more into your commissary account!”  
The grizzled and comely vision of Lucifer, all blonde, blue-eyed and harrowed manifested on the wall of Gabriel’s room with a pleasant snarl. Then a huff. Always with the impatient huff.  
“Brother, you know there’s no commissary in The Cage.”  
Now it was Gabriel’s turn to snerk with impertenance. “And those Ramen noodles I send each Thursday show up how?” He loosened his collar and tie and tossed his black hat onto the bed.  
“Fine, fine… thanks for the, um, salty Earth goodness.”  
“Okay… this Lena Brown stupidity… please, please tell me I can avoid digging up a teen-aged girl so her brother can feed on her entrails?”  
Lucifer huffed once more, then scooted himself into a seated position. Wiping his face with his hands, he began to chuckle, then laugh. “Gabriel, dude! It is soooo simple! You can heal her brother, stop all this nonsense!”  
“Which would get me labelled a heretic witch-doctor-“  
“Or a hero. What does it matter? You can be the Hero, the Saviour Doctor, the Almighty Manipulator! Dude, since when have you NOT abused your power as an Archangel?”  
“Since maybe I don’t WANT to!” spat Gabriel. “Holy fuck, Luci… you’ve really… REALLY lost sight of Christ’s plan..”  
“What’s that, hoser?”  
“That’s right. I didn’t say Chuck… I said ‘Christ.’ You don’t see Christ’s plan for the humans—"  
The projection of Lucifer flickered, and he scuffled to his feet. “Such a fuckin’ patsy. Always about ‘the Humans’ and ‘the Christ Child.’ Don’t have a lot of time for visitation, bro. Let the dumb-ass humans be dumb-ass humans. Your choice. Thanks for the salty noodles. Send water next time, dick-bag. They taste better with water.”  
And POOF Lucifer was gone.  
↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔  
The small group gathered on a chilled, hardened grey day in March at Chestnut Hill Cemetery. Lena’s coffin was disinterred, cracked open unceremoniously with a rusty prybar, and her corpse, well-preserved from the brutal winter, was offered up to the kindly country doctor to perform an autopsy.  
Who was Gabriel?  
Certainly, he was no country doctor. And while… yes, he could most certainly cure the house of Mercy Lena Brown from further bouts of consumption… he dared wonder… Should he or shouldn’t he?  
She was a girl… tripping over Autumn’s leaves… caring for her ailing family. Milking cows and… just… being so… simple.  
Pure.  
I need my little bro to get me through this, thought Gabriel the Imposter-Doctor. If anybody knows purity, it’s that damn simple Seraph, Castiel. Daddy’s little goodie, goodie-two shoes.  
Don’t drink, don’t smoke- what do you do?  
Yeah… what do you do, Cassa-frass?  
Oh, if only Gabriel knew what things his precious Castiel enjoyed.  
Gabriel’s stomach turned (as if that were possible) as spade after spade of cold, frigid dirt were flung about the cemetery.  
“Disinter the child, then… Bag her properly. Respectfully. I’d like to fully examine her at my office. In Wickford.”  
“Doctor… we haven’t provided for that- we’d thought—"  
“You thought I’d gut a young child on the cold, hard ground?” snarled Gabriel. That was it. Fully disgusted, he’d simply had enough. “I’d really rather not involve myself in this macabre burlesque!” He stomped away, casting off the dark hat he’d come to wear in his role as “Doc” Metcalf.  
“Wait, now… perhaps we can help.”  
And help could not have come more from Heaven and more from wishful thinking.  
Castiel stood suddenly at his side, resolute, nattily dressed in a suit and blue tie, while Desmond “Dean” Winchester Arnold looked on, in an, albeit much cheaper suit. Looking shifty.  
And uncomfortable.  
Yet… somehow… eager?  
Gabriel turned, recognizing his brother yet not the handsome, sturdy man beside him. “Great… Cassie found some assie.”  
How will this help me?  
Gabriel would soon find out.  
“Listen to this man,” spoke Castiel, gesturing to Dean. “He communes with spirits, and he seeks his brother.”  
As reporters flopped open notebooks, and all manner of jotting commenced, the man called “Dean” spoke up.  
“Don’t dig up Lena; she done spake to me. She’s an angel in Heaven… she’s no bloodsucker.” He fell to his knees. “Ya gotta believe me!”  
Gabriel’s mouth fell open.  
Castiel the “Virgin Angel” was parading a conquest in front of Gabe.  
How.  
Fucking.  
Dare.  
He.  
No… No! I’m the hot one!  
“Doctor Metcalf?” Castiel, ever the one for precision, kept to the unholy script like a dog would keep on trash.  
“I… fainted.”


End file.
